“So if I were to sit on that wingchair right now,”—his gaze directed to the furnishing in question—“with you on my lap and my mouth on yours, you’d be indifferent?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
He stalked toward her, and she retreated immediately. When the back of her knees hit the wingchair, she lost her balance, her bottom smacking softly against the leather seat. He planted his hands on the back of the chair, caging yet not touching her.
Leaning down, he mocked, “Then don’t be a liar. You said you had full control of yourself around me.”
“I do. In that hypothetical scenario, I would be trying to get away from you,” she shot back.
“What if I held you tight, kissed you deeper, licked your sweet lips until you let me in?”
Her cheeks turned rosy. “I—I’d bite your tongue!”
“Ah, but then I’d have to punish you.” He let his words sink in, saw her pupils dilating—not with fear, but ... arousal. Devil and damn. His trousers grew instantly tighter.
“You wouldn’t dare.” She didn’t sound so full of conviction now.
“To the contrary, pet, I dare most anything,” he purred. “Now you saw quite the variety of punishments at Andromeda’s; I wonder which you would most prefer? For instance, would you enjoy being bound and helpless as I took my pleasure? As I touched and kissed you however, wherever, I wanted to?”
A choked breath left her. Beneath her cloak, her bosom surged.
“Perhaps you’d like to pleasure me,” he said thoughtfully. “On your knees, taking everything I give you.” His cockstand, already turgid, pulsed at the idea—and even more so when her teeth sank into her lower lip. Sweat dampened his collar; he forced himself to finish what he’d begun. “But I think you’d most like being turned over on my knee. Raising your pretty bottom up for me.”
His senses flooded with the beauty of that image: her supple, white skin beneath his palm, her beauty entirely in his hands. He knew she was not a miss of half-measures; when Emma Kent submitted, she would give ... everything. Heat sizzled through his veins, and he burned to know the generosity of her ardor, to show her ecstasy that she’d never known before.
In a hoarse voice, he continued, “You could let go of fear and worry, Emma. Put yourself into my keeping.” He cupped her downy cheek, her quiver travelling straight to his prick. “You could trust me to give you everything you need.”
She made a strangled sound, and he saw his own dark desire mirrored in her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed with arousal rather than disgust. She swayed toward him, her breath panting through her lips, her passion like a seed poised to sprout through virginal inhibitions ...
Virgin—a trap.
His mind sounded the alarm over his roaring lust. Laura seemed sweet and passionate, and she played you for a fool. His gut clenched as her betrayals flooded him, the humiliating memories. The loss ...
Never again.
Control is everything.
Somehow, he mastered himself. Pushing away from the wingchair, he straightened and lifted a brow. “Well, pet? Are you unaffected now? In complete control?”
She blinked, paling as the words struck home. “You’re a bastard,” she whispered.
“I’m honest,” he corrected coolly. “This is what will happen if you play games with me. Now this is your last warning: stop meddling or face the consequences.”
She shot to her feet. “Fine. If you wind up dead, see if I give a farthing!”
Phobos and Deimos leapt up, ready to give chase to her departing figure.
“Stay,” Alaric commanded.
The deerhounds came over to him, whining at the loss of a visitor.
“Trust me, lads,” he said darkly. “It has to be this way.”
***
Despite his victory over the indomitable chit, Alaric felt bedeviled with restlessness. The dark fantasies he’d used to warn off Miss Kent continued to plague his lustful imagination. Visions of her kneeling in front of him, her lips parting so sweetly as he fed her every inch of his throbbing shaft ...
He paced the library like a damned prisoner in his own house. Either he could go upstairs and frig himself like a blasted greenling or he could find some distraction. His club—that was the ticket. He hadn’t gone to White’s since Clara’s death, and his continued absence would add fuel to the gossip.
Best to nip it in the bud. He had naught to hide.
Summoning his carriage, he made the short trip over to St. James Street.
As Alaric entered White’s, that bastion of male comfort, all eyes turned to him. The scent of leather and cigar smoke curled in his nostrils as he returned cold stares and polite greetings in equal measure. Nothing like strife to separate friends from foes. He made mental note of who fell on which side: the Scot in him valued loyalty above all else.
“Strathaven, I am surprised to see you here.”
At the pompous drawl, Alaric turned to see the Earl of Mercer approaching, accompanied by his usual pack of dandies. With his wheat-colored hair immaculately pomaded and his trim figure clad in embroidered velvet, Mercer was a handsome Pink of Fashion. He was also a snob, the kind of fellow whose sole purpose in life appeared to be flaunting his wealth and position—neither of which he’d earned—and spewing “wit” with his viper’s tongue.
“Why would you be surprised?” Alaric said in even tones.
“The passing of Lady Osgood—so very shocking to the sensibilities.” Mercer shuddered. “It appears you’ve managed to escape unscathed. Must be those hardy Scottish sensibilities of yours.”
Mercer’s cronies tittered.
“I had nothing to do with Lady Osgood’s death. Anyone who claims the contrary can meet me at dawn,” Alaric said coldly.
“At dawn? How uncivilized an hour. Lord knows I have plenty of engagements,” Mercer said with a brittle laugh, “and cannot possibly rearrange my schedule to fit you in.”
“Well met, gentlemen.” Gabriel, the Marquess of Tremont, came up to them. If Tremont’s astute grey gaze took the full measure of the tense situation, his pleasant expression showed no signs of it. “Mercer, I believe some friends of yours are looking for you. Something about an entry in the betting book.”
“A gentleman’s work is never done.” Sketching a bow, the earl sauntered off, his entourage tagging at his heels.
Alaric said in low tones, “I’d like to rearrange more than that bastard’s schedule.”
“Mercer’s just looking to stir trouble. Don’t give him the satisfaction.” Tremont slapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s have a drink and talk of more important things.”
They managed to find prized seats by a private hearth.
“They don’t make chairs like this anywhere else,” Tremont said, stretching out his legs.
“They do if you pay them enough.” Alaric had commissioned furnishings from the same manufacturer for his study at Strathmore Castle, and it had cost him a pretty penny.
Tremont regarded him with a dry smile. “We aren’t all as rich as Croesus, you know.”
While the marquess had improved the financial situation he’d inherited, apparently he still had a ways to go. Alaric understood the other’s predicament. After all, he’d spent his tenure as duke replenishing the coffers left empty by his guardian’s profligacy.
“You will be once our venture is settled at month’s end,” Alaric assured him.
“I do have some good news on that front. I spoke with Burrowes today, and he’s decided to stand firm with us. His show of support should help us cauterize this wound yet.”
“Well done,” Alaric said. “That is the best news I’ve had all day.”
“What are you two up to now?” said an amused voice. “Whatever it is, may I join in?”
Marcus Harrington, Lord Blackwood, was another friend from his Oxford days. Blackwood had been the spare to the title back then and after University had bought a commission in the army. His training was still evident in his militaristic bearing,
the precise cut of his golden brown hair. After his brother’s death, he’d acquired a marquessdom and a marchioness soon thereafter.
All three stood and exchanged bows.
Alaric said, “Care for a hand of cards, Blackwood?”
“Why not? I could always do with some of your gold.”
At one o’clock in the morning, Alaric left the table with heavier pockets, bowing to the good-natured groans of his friends. Outside, he descended the steps of the club, aware of an edgy energy that the night’s distractions had not quelled. As he headed toward his carriage parked up ahead, he considered making a stop at a bawdy house. Mayhap a fuck was what he needed to rid himself of his inexplicable itch for Miss Kent once and for all.
Yet for some damnable reason, he didn’t feel like bedding a whore.
The oncoming rattle of wheels made him look to the road. A black carriage was flying over the cobblestone; the driver, a fellow obscured by a dark hat and greatcoat, must have bacon for brains for driving that fast down St. James. Trash fluttered from the open window. As the vehicle passed him, Alaric glimpsed whipping curtains, a face split by a scar into two menacing halves, metal glinting—
Even as he threw himself to the ground, the shot rang in his ears. He lay on the pavement, blinking up at the stars. Muffled shouts came from the distance. Scorching pain flamed over his arm, and the night descended upon him.
Chapter Eleven
The stillroom, with its bottle-lined shelves and large work table, was a refuge for Emma. Claiming that remedies were not her forte, Marianne’s housekeeper generously allowed Emma use of the space below stairs whenever she wished. At present, Emma was working on a salve for Mr. Pitt’s aching knees and the second footman’s bad back. She added drops of camphor to the bowl, stirring it into the thick concoction of beeswax and rosewater.
“The new gowns came for me and Polly,” Violet said. Perched on the table next to the bowl, she swung her legs idly.
“That’s good, dear,” Emma said absently.
Thank God she had a few mundane activities to occupy her. If not, she might have been driven mad by her thoughts. Do not think about him, she reprimanded herself.
“There’s ribbons and slippers to match,” Violet went on.
“Mmm.”
As Emma concentrated on giving the salve a good mix with the wooden spoon, she kept hearing Strathaven’s seductive voice, the wicked things he’d described last night. The pale fire of his gaze licked through her.
You could let go of fear and worry, Emma. Put yourself into my keeping. You could trust me to give you everything you need.
A shiver ran through her. She ought to have been shocked. Disgusted.
Instead, his words set off a deep, explosive resonance that shook the foundations of her being.
’Twas a yearning she could put no words to—an urge so terrifying that for the first time in her life, she’d not only stood down, but fled. Only she couldn’t run from herself. From the strange, mortifying, exhilarating impulses that Strathaven had awakened her.
She’d dreamed of him last night. Of them, tangled skin against skin. In sleep, she had no control over her will, and she’d let him do everything he’d described to her. His hands, his mouth, his command ... Pleasure had trapped her like a bell jar, and there’d been no escaping the confines of her own surrender. He’d owned her breath, her body, her soul—and she’d never felt more free. She’d awoken bathed in perspiration, the tips of breasts pebbled and throbbing, her sex slick with dew ...
“I don’t think I’ll have much use for a new wardrobe,” Violet droned on. “I’m planning on joining Astley’s and becoming a circus performer.”
“That’s nice, dear,” Emma said.
Silence met her words.
She looked up from the bowl. “Sorry,” she sighed. “I wasn’t listening, was I?”
“Not to a single word I was saying.” Vi’s golden-brown eyes narrowed. “What is the matter with you, anyway? You’ve been acting strangely all this week.”
“Nothing’s the matter. I’m just ... preoccupied.”
“By what? Making salve?” Vi’s gaze rolled upward. “Back in Chudleigh Crest, you did that while tending to Papa, sewing up petticoats for me and Polly, putting out Harry’s latest fire, and cooking supper. No, something’s going on,”—Vi tapped her chin—“and I’d put my money on the duke.”
Though her pulse skittered, Emma spooned salve into the waiting jars. “I’ve cleared up the matter with the magistrates. I’ll have no further dealings with him.”
Why doesn’t that make me feel relieved?
She told herself that things were better this way. She had to admit that she was not as in command of her carnal impulses as she’d believed, and staying away from Strathaven was clearly the safest option. After all, she’d offered to make amends; he’d refused. She’d done what she could. As for furthering her investigative skills, she’d simply have to find another way to convince Ambrose ...
The sound of rustling silk made her turn to the doorway. One look at Marianne’s grave expression, and even Violet said in alarm, “What’s wrong, Marianne?”
“I’ve just received some rather disturbing news.”
Emma’s nape tingled with premonition. “What is it?”
“It’s Strathaven,” Marianne said. “He’s been shot.”
Chapter Twelve
If there was anything Alaric despised, it was the sick bed.
He’d spent half his youth in one, the boredom and helplessness nearly as bad as the illness itself. He’d hated the quacks; summoned by Aunt Patrice, they’d arrived to Strathmore Castle in droves, vials of potions rattling in their carrying cases. Some supposed cures had actually made matters worse; after being dosed with a tincture of belladonna, he’d retched for hours. Writhing and shivering in his own sweat, he’d prayed for an end to the suffering.
Lady Patrice had nursed him tirelessly through it all. Having lost her own son to scarlet fever, she wasn’t taking any chances with her new ward. Between her, the stifling sickroom, and uncontrollable episodes of pain, he’d felt like an osprey stuffed in a canary cage.
Like Ares imprisoned in that bloody jar.
His gaze went to the painting on the wall, which brought that mythological scene to life in darkly exquisite oils. He’d commissioned the work from an Italian master, and it showed the God of War, his muscles rippling and fists raised against the curved walls of his cell. The artist had captured Ares’ expression admirably, and it wasn’t a pretty picture. It wasn’t meant to be.
To Alaric, it was a reminder: he’d never let himself be trapped again.
“How are we doing today?” came a bright, female voice.
Annabel McLeod entered the room, Will trotting at her heels. The two had showed up after the shooting—summoned by Jarvis, the old betrayer—and proceeded to nurse Alaric, who’d been too weak to fend them off.
Now he glared at his sister-in-law. She had pulled back the sleeve of his robe without so much as a by-your-leave and was fussing with the dressing on his right arm.
“Are you trying to finish off what the assassin started?” he said.
Annabel narrowed her violet eyes at him. No tepid lass, his brother’s wife. Her temper could flare as brightly as her hair. The Scotsman in him respected a woman who could give as good as she got. Of course, this made him think of Miss Kent.
Did she know that he’d been shot? If she did, would she care?
Only insofar as she’d like to finish the job.
“If you’d hold still instead of thrashing like a lamprey, I’d have an easier time of it,” Annabel said tartly. “Dr. Abernathy said to check the wound at least once a day.”
“He may be Scottish, but he’s still a quack,” Alaric grumbled.
“You keep your tone civil, or I’ll take my leave and my wife with me,” his brother growled from the other side of the bed.
Turning his head on the pillow, Alaric inquired, “Oh, you’re still here?”
“You bloody ingrate—”
“Enough, you dunderheads.” Annabel peeled away his bandage with enough force to make him inhale sharply. Her auburn brows knit together as she peered at his injury. “The wound’s oozing, but it doesn’t look infected. The mold paste appears to be doing its job.”
“The paste was a fine touch, lass,” Will said. “Brains as well as beauty. I’m a lucky fellow.”
Seeing the smug expression on his brother’s face, Alaric thought he might be ill again. For all his brawn, Will was naught but an oversized pup when it came to his wife. What a chump.
Although he had to admit that Annabel had proved rather handy in this instance. The daughter of a country physician, she’d been the one to suggest smearing his wound with the concoction of fermented bread, an infection preventative that her father had used with great success. Dr. Abernathy had been intrigued in her fount of knowledge, and the two had had quite a time of it, debating ways to treat Alaric’s injury. He’d felt like a side of beef with two chefs arguing over which was the best way to serve him up.
“I’m the lucky one.” Adoration shone in Annabel’s eyes as she gazed at her husband.
Devil take it, the two should just find a bedchamber and be done with it.
She set a tray over Alaric’s lap. “As for you, your grace, you’d best eat something if you hope to regain your strength.”
His stomach churned at the sight of the gruel; it brought back memories of the old duke’s punishments. Of the tasteless mush he’d been given to cure him of his “malingering.” He’d sooner starve than eat a spoonful of such shite again.
“I’m not hungry,” he said testily. “I’d like rest and privacy, if you please.”
Fists on her hips, Annabel looked ready to argue, but Will intervened. “Not until we talk.”
“About what?” Alaric said.
“Who’s out to kill you, for starters.”
“That’s none of your affair.” In a moment of weakness—which he chalked up to blood loss—he’d told his brother everything, from the poison in his whiskey to the shooter last night.
Will glowered at him. “We’re kin. Of course it’s my affair.”
The Duke Who Knew Too Much Page 9